(I changed the chapter to one much more relevant to the issues discussed on this site. – JW )
I’ve received some inquiries about a book I wrote about my return to the IDF Navy during the first Gulf War after having been producing film and TV in Hollywood for six years.
I’ve never even mentioned it here because I am loath to use this site for self promotion. However, given the interest expressed, I’m posting this now. I’ve included a chapter below, and those who are cashed strapped can read the whole book in the “preview” on the book site.
Though I placed a “donate” button on the site a month or so ago, I have never directly asked for contributions to help me keep this site going. Buying a book will be the equivalent of donating half the price to the site.
I promise you, it’s a great read. Funny as hell in parts, fascinating in others and deeply self-reflective.
Joseph Wouk
Ships in 3–5 business days
Joseph Wouk, an ex-immigrant to Israel, now a Hollywood television producer, is overcome with guilt and horror as Saddam’s missiles target Tel Aviv. The sense of impotence, sitting in Los Angeles watching CNN report chemical warheads in Ramat Gan, is more than he can bear. Abandoning his wife and child, as well as a television film in development, he flies into the war zone to rejoin his old unit in the Israeli Navy. The only problem is, he’s been kicked out of the Navy reserves for having failed to report for duty in six years. They don’t need or want him back either. But Wouk is determined to “help”… Even if it means turning the whole I.D.F. Navy inside-out. Scuds, Duds, & Tyre is a hilarious and torturous new-journalistic account of Wouk’s return to the Israeli Navy during the Gulf War. In a style reminiscent of Hunter S. Thompson and with themes reminiscent of his father, Herman Wouk, the book is original, insightful, and outrageous.
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6.
Messiahs, Time Machines & Sitting Ducks
By the time dinner arrives two hours later, the whole plane has heard about “the Yossi’s” in the back. The passengers sitting near us who had wanted to rest were totally out of luck. Jokes, howls, leers, and roars, in a never-ending stream, pierce through a billowing cloud of cigarette smoke reminiscent of Mount Saint Helen. I am having the time of my life. What a great buncha guys!
The harassed stewardesses, who are trying to satisfy the “infinite entitlement” complexes of five hundred Israelis at once, have a some-what different opinion of the “Yossi’s.” I found this out the hard way when I tried to ask one of them if they might possibly sell the duty frees before dinner rather than after… You see, I had finished the Winstons and “The Organized’s” pack of Marlboros was nearly ex¬hausted as well…
“Don’t YOU start up now,” she shrieked, “You’ll be sorry, you hear! ALL of you are an ‘ASONE TEVA’!!!” (Natural catastrophe). She wagged her forefinger at me, eyes flashing an unmistakable warn¬ing. This woman was pissed! At the moment she seemed to hate me more than fifty Saddams…
“Wha’d I say? Hey, Yossi, did I say something wrong?” I looked around for support. That poor girl. The jeers, curses, catcalls, and epi-thets that chased her up the aisle were among the worst I had ever heard. As she fled the deluge, other passengers joined in the deri¬sion…
“Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?…” “This is the worst service I’ve ever encountered!…” “Don’t you shout at the American!…” “Leave those Yossi’s alone! They cheer everyone up; all you do is kvetch!…” “Where’s my drink, you?! It’s been half an hour!…” Etc.
It was a great victory, but I still had the problem of the cigarettes to deal with. One pack was all it had taken to rekindle the bitterest cravings of a confirmed nicotine addict. “The Organized” insisted that I take his last Marlboro.
“But what will you do?” I exclaimed. “What will I do? What good is one butt? We’ve got almost nine hours left on this horrible flight!”
“God will provide a lamb for the sacrifice, my son…” He an¬swered with Biblical conviction.
And damned if he wasn’t right! “The Curly” was up and rummag-ing through the overhead compartment. He pulled out a carton of Kents, and, like Jesus before the starving multitude, began tossing packs one-by-one to the eager, outstretched hands of the nic-crazed Yossi’s. “I bought these for my brother in law. To hell with him, he’s an asshole anyway…” Dollar bills began flapping in all directions as we tried to pay him for his largess. “Te’heyu Bri’im, Azov T’akesef…” (Be healthy, forget the money).
As happy fresh clouds of poison smoke refilled the cabin, it was mo¬tioned, seconded, and passed by a voice vote that “The Curly” would hereinafter be known among us only as Yossi HaMashiach (The Messiah)…
* * *
The vile rubbish that masquerades as “dinner” in economy class is gagged down in good humor. We all have two or three mini-bottles of wine under our belts before beginning to discuss the “Matzav” (situation).
I kick off the discussion by challenging the row to prove to me that any of them are any less crazy than I am to be flying into this shit-pit of a war. It turns out only one of them actually lives in Israel at the moment. The rest are Yordim, like me. Some still have family in Israel that they are worried about, others don’t. No one has a really good reason to be going. I rest my case.
The fact of the matter is, the majority of the people on this plane are returning home because of the same irresistible force that I felt on the night of the Midori. An ephemeral but powerful need to be a part of what is happening. My mind wanders, as I recall the movie version of H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine. That eerie, mesmerizing wail of the Morlocks’ air raid sirens… Drawing spellbound people to their deaths below….
RRRRHHhhhhhhhhh…..RRRRRRHHHHHHhhhhhhhh. …RRRR…
“This is the Captain speaking. The military spokesman in Israel has just announced that the four Patriot Batteries sent by the Americans to Israel are now fully operational. B’sha’a tova.” (Lit. in a good hour, just in time).
I join in the subdued cheering and handclapping that erupts through-out the plane. I look around at the faces of the passengers… Pain, de-termination and sadness is written all over them. No real happiness or re¬lief. Nobody actually believes that these American-manned machines are going to make a difference. But we all clap anyway. Davka! (Nevertheless…In Spite of it all…Because of it all)
It was time for business. We pour ourselves some new mini’s, light up and begin to argue. There’s an old joke that if you want to hear five different opinions on a particular subject, ask two Israelis…
Everybody agrees that the Patriots are little more than a public re¬la-tions stunt designed to calm the population and give the government po-litical breathing space to decide what to really do about the threat.
There is a division of opinion though, as to whether it is good or bad to have American troops stationed in Israel. On the one hand, it more firmly commits the U.S. to the defense of Israel. If Saddam drops gas on Israel he might very well gas Americans at the same time. It’s a whole different ball of wax when G.I.s get killed than when Jews do. Especially in the American press. If that happens, Katie-bar-the-door, as far as Israel’s political ability to justify any re¬sponse it chose to make. On the other hand, Israel is now responsi¬ble for the G.I.’s safety. That hinders our ability to take preemptive action that might provoke a gas counter-at¬tack.
Besides, Israel doesn’t want or need to become an American lackey… Look what happened to South Vietnam. Why are the Americans so eager to send troops to Israel all of a sudden, anyway? Clearly they want Israel to sit this one out and not endanger the Arab coalition that they built up with such painstaking care over the last six months. This is part of their plan. Hamstring Israel. The Shamir Government now owes Bush for providing them with this po¬litical cover.
This argument ends with a Teyku. (Lit. The Talmudic expression for an unresolved controversy that must wait for the Messiah to answer it, A draw.)
But what is Israel going to do? How and when will we strike back?
“The Bearded” is sure that we will have to mount a large com¬mando raid into Western Iraq. If massive American air strikes can’t do the job, what could our relatively small Air Force accomplish? We could helicop¬ter or parachute in enough troops to seize either H-2 or H-3 airfields. Then bring in a much larger force using C-130 Hercules trans-ports. Kind of an Entebbe operation on a massive scale. These forces would search and destroy all the mobile missiles in the area before be-ing pulled out. This analysis sounds eminently reasonable to me, until “The Young” interjects: “‘The Bearded’ has no idea what he is talking about when he says our air-force can’t do the job…”
“The Young”, it develops, is an authority on the subject since one of his brothers is an F-16 pilot. There could be no comparing the American and Israeli Air Forces as far as precision bombing was con-cerned. The Americans were not allowed to fly any lower than 500 feet in their at¬tacks. The Israelis routinely practiced bomb runs as low as 50 feet. His brother had told him that they could locate a cockroach in the Negev de¬sert and blow its head off while leaving the carapace intact. That’s how good they were. The mobile launchers would be no problem to find and destroy….
All Right! Good to hear! Sounds pretty convincing to me….
“Both ‘The Young’ and ‘The Bearded’ are forgetting one simple fact,” announces “The Large.” “Whether we go in with jet fighters or commandos we’re gonna have to cross Jordan to get there…” King Hussein has said that he will confront any violation of his air space with military force. He will do it, too. If he doesn’t, he’ll be hanged from the nearest sour-apple tree his people can find. Of course, Israel can take care of the Jordanian forces in short order, but it will require an overland invasion across the Jordan river. A combined operation of air, armour and infantry. In other words, all out war. If we want to stop the Missiles, it’s our only choice… Very depressing thought, but I have to admit he’s right…
“The Small” has been listening silently to this whole exchange. A wizened man in his seventies, he has sharp, bright, weasel-like eyes that gleam with cunning intelligence. He holds up a shrunken claw for silence. “What none of you seem to understand is that we have no choice. We must and will use atomic bombs on this Bastard…” Can Israel afford to absorb even one missile attack that uses ABACH? (Military acronym… Atomic-Biological-Chemical). Why do we have our own nuclear arsenal, anyway? For precisely such an occurrence as this… A whirling Dervish of an Arab leader gets hold of non-conven-tional weapons and then backs himself into a political corner of having to use them on Israel. Didn’t he say he would “incinerate half of Israel”?
“The Small,” it turns out, had actually grown up in Iraq and un¬der-stood their values. They didn’t give a hoot about human lives. Not of their enemies, not of their friends, not even their own. Deterrence simply doesn’t work against this sort of mentality. They would use that ABACH of theirs even if they knew Israel would retali¬ate with Atomic bombs…
That being the case, it made no sense to abandon our population as sitting ducks, waiting for the gas, or even worse, the germs that Saddam was planning to drop on them. Sure, there will be some hard political fallout. But the Russians are in the middle of a civil war, and the Americans will be spared the necessity of a ground attack. No more Americans killed by Saddam. That might not go down too badly with the American public. The end result would justify the means. Besides, the alternative was unthinkable….
I am reminded of how I had howled as much to Lou Dobbs on the big-screen. But that was back when I thought there had been gas. If “The Small” is right in his assessment of the Iraqi mentality, though, he has a real point….
My neighbor, “The Organized” has been wearing a knowing smirk on his face, occasionally interrupting the speakers with puns and other pointless inanities. “Friends, what no one here has even dealt with is the fact that none of us will be making this decision. Consider who it is we’re talking about. Yizhak Shamir… That man hasn’t been able to make a hard decision since his days in Lechi. (a pre-State underground Zionist faction). Let me tell you what I think Israel is going to do. Nothing, that’s what… We’ll let the Americans do the fighting for us. If Saddam had gas war-heads for his ridiculous Scuds he would have used them by now. The fact is, all he’s got are the conventional type… And he couldn’t hit a barn at 50 meters with their accuracy. The Americans will eventu¬ally manage to take out all of his launchers. In the meantime, we can ab¬sorb the one or two casualties a day that he’s managed to inflict upon us so far.
Consider how many soldiers we would lose if we followed either “The Bearded’s” or the “The Large’s” plan of action…. Ten, twenty, two hun¬dred? Why should we throw away that many lives for one or two civil¬ians? It makes no sense. We’ll make lots of threatening noises to keep the domestic political pressure at bay, but in the end we’ll do nothing. Even if I’m wrong about the Iraqis, I know I’m right about Shamir. We will do nothing because that is the only thing Shamir knows how to do. And he does it very well.”
The row of Yossi’s grows silent in contemplation of this descrip¬tion of Shamir that they all know to be the gospel truth. “The Organized” has actually won the argument. None of us can really say that we know what the Americans, the Iraqis, or the Jordanians will do. But we all know Shamir. What a horrible thought! We might all be slaughtered without even trying to protect ourselves. And there was nothing Yossi One through Yossi Eight could do about it….
“I’m going to get some Vodka… Any takers?” I try to dispel the gloom that has settled around us like a cold, dark blanket. Only “The Organized” is game. But he doesn’t count. After all, he won the ar¬gu-ment. Of course he’d drink…
* * *
The hours fly by as does our Jet to the “Holy Land.” The Yossi’s never recover their former jubilance. An hour before landing I find myself making mental preparations for survival on the ground. What if there is an attack while we’re landing? Or even worse, while we’re disembarking? None of us have gas masks yet. Supposedly they are being distributed at the airport, but I assume we’ll have to make it to the terminal first… The advance warning is only about 90 seconds. Sitting Ducks… I look around and see the others clearly absorbed in similar thoughts. We are all men¬tally grooming our feathers for the event.
“Hey! Come see!” “The Young” blurts from his window seat.
We all climb over one another to get a look through a window. I lie across the laps of “The Small,” “The Bearded” and “The Young,” but I get to see it…
The sun is already sinking low off the Western horizon behind us. The clouds are lit with pink, yellow and orange pastels. And there, glass canopies glinting with reflected gold, a pair of camouflage painted F-16 warplanes fly in tight formation, no more than 500 yards from us… The blue Magen David is clearly visible on each tail.
Chail Avir (The Israeli Air Force) is escorting us home.
As I watch, the giant wing-flaps of the 747 come out and down. With the sounds of servos whining, the plane shudders and pitches forward.
We are starting our descent….
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